The scent of woodsmoke and baking bread always took Vivienne back. Back to childhood mornings in Loirent, sunlight slanting through the grimy windows of her family’s bakery, turning the flour dust motes gold. She could almost hear her father’s gruff laughter as he wrestled a sack of rye, feel the warmth of the oven against her cheek, taste the sweetness of sugared plums fresh from the market stall across the street. Those memories were a comfort now, in this quiet room overlooking a sliver of Danue's bustling marketplace. She hadn't been back to Loirent in decades, not since she’d packed a few meagre belongings and boarded a train bound for the textile mills of Bexley. It had been a hard life, long hours and harsh conditions, but it paid better than the bakery ever could. It was there she met Thomas, a weaver with gentle hands and eyes the colour of the sky after a summer storm. He’d taught her the intricate dance of the loom, the rhythm of warp and weft, and how to coax beauty from simple threads. They'd built a life together, modest but happy, raising their children in a tiny cottage near the millpond. Life had dealt them its share of blows, too. The loss of their eldest son in a mining accident, the slow decline of Thomas’s health, leaving Vivienne a widow before her time. It was then she decided to return to Loirent, drawn by a deep-seated longing for the familiar scents and sounds of her childhood. Now, surrounded by the gentle clatter of the street below, Vivienne felt a sense of peace she hadn't known in years. She had traded her loom for a needle and thread, finding solace in creating intricate embroidery, each stitch a whisper of memory, a testament to a life well-lived. The bakery may have been long gone, but its spirit lived on within her, a quiet strength woven into the very fabric of her being.